Red Heat

by Nina Bruhns

  Her T-shirt was in the way.

  “Take it off,” he ordered, reaching for the hem and dragging it up her torso. He was momentarily arrested by the sight of her, lush, naked, and unbound, so beautiful she took his breath away.

  As she eased the T-shirt from his fingers and drew it off, he cupped her full breasts in his hands, rubbing over her nipples so they peaked against his palms.

  A noise of pure need came from her throat, and she reached for the buttons of his uniform shirt.

  “Nyet,” he said, stopping her. She’d had the advantage their first time; he’d been nude well before she’d shed her clothes. Which had been exciting in its own way, but—

  “This is my turn. I want you naked.”

  He lifted her up and she quickly removed her jeans.

  Her body quivered when he tugged her back and positioned her body over his. He reveled at the feel of her gliding over the hard ridge where his body ached to join hers. He met her lips and his hands explored her bare shoulders, her ribs, the curve of her waist.

  He brushed his palms over the satin skin of her bottom, then parted his legs and slid his fingers through the moist heat of her feminine folds. A moan escaped her as he found her center.

  He touched her.

  “Nikolai,” she panted, arching her back as he circled her need. “Oh, yes.”

  Arousal poured through him seeing her like this, in the throes of her passion for him. Helpless against the strength of their ardor. He brought her higher and higher, watching the emotions play across her face, until she shattered in his arms, crying out his name in a breathless plea.

  She shuddered so sweetly, held him so tightly, driving his own need to the breaking point.

  “You,” she moaned when she opened her heavy-lidded eyes at last. She fumbled with his trouser buttons, urging him to remove the last physical barrier between them. “Hurry.”

  He hurried.

  He lifted her and lowered her slick velvet heat onto his aching cock.

  He groaned. From pleasure. From need. From the knowledge that this . . . this explosive thing between them couldn’t last longer than a few short weeks. How wrong was that?

  “Julie,” he groaned, thrusting up into her. Her name tasted good on his tongue. It tasted so right. Like the taste of her lips and the salt of her skin. Real. Honest. Like the feel of her flesh surrounding his, like her arms clinging to him as she rode him to their mutual pleasure.

  “Я буду держать вас,” he said, low and urgent, and felt the words sink deep into his soul. I would keep you.

  But how?

  Their situation had them trapped, captive in separate, opposing worlds, just as the Arctic ice kept the sea from touching the sky in winter. An impenetrable barrier. Dangerous to all who attempted to break free.

  Finding a way through the obstacles could well prove impossible. Or even deadly.

  But as they reached their explosive climax and came together in every sense of the word, in his heart, Nikolai knew he must try.

  19

  Julie did not want to move.

  She was draped over Nikolai’s chest, his arms loosely slung around her, the fingers of his hand twirling absently in the ends of her hair. Lord, her body felt like a limp noodle.

  But, oh, so very good.

  They’d made love again, this time using every square inch of the narrow bunk, sometimes spilling out onto the hard floor amid groans and laughter, kisses and shivers. The man was an irresistible mix of sensuality, sensitivity, powerful masculinity, and an uncontainable free spirit.

  “Woman, you take my breath away,” Nikolai said, his voice deep and lulling in the aftermath of their loving. His eyes were closed with a peaceful look gracing his strong features.

  She kissed his square jaw. “The feeling is mutual,” she murmured.

  God, he made her happy. So happy she didn’t know it was possible to be this happy. She wanted to stay right here and feel this way forever. To let him wrap his arms around her and hold her close and keep her safe from all the unexpected pain and anguish that life could bring. Because she knew he would. He was that kind of man.

  She sighed in a mix of longing and contentment. “You must come and visit me in the States. Often.” The words were out before she realized she was wishing aloud.

  “Sure,” he responded lazily, then made a sound in his throat. “If you want me to be arrested.”

  “Don’t even say that!” The protest pierced her heart. “By which side?”

  “Take your pick,” he returned evenly. “Neither side is going to believe we just want to spend time together. Preferably in bed,” he added with a wicked smile.

  She gave him a playful smack. “Hey!”

  He pursed his curved lips. “Okay. I’d like to see the cherry trees, too. And the new statue of Alexander Pushkin at GWU.”

  Both tributes to peace between countries. How much proof did she need that he was a good man whose involvement in this spy mess was beyond his control?

  “I’ll take you to see them,” she said, resolutely ignoring the shade of indulgence she detected in his tone. Was his skepticism because he didn’t really believe it would happen? Or because he didn’t really want it to . . . ?

  “I’d like to meet your family, too,” he said thoughtfully. “Tell me about them.”

  She drew in a deep breath and let it out. Not exactly the direction she’d wanted this conversation to go in.

  “I mean,” he clarified, seeming to feel her reluctance, “you told me what happened with your father, but what about your mother? Do you have sisters, brothers?”

  Okay, that she could deal with. She laid her cheek back down on his chest. “No brothers or sisters. Just my mom. And a bunch of aunts and uncles and cousins, but they all live in other states now, so I don’t see them much. Mom lives in Maryland, pretty close to D.C.”

  “So you see her often?” He sounded wistful, and she remembered how much he missed his own mother.

  “Not as often as I should,” she confessed, feeling vaguely guilty for having a mother alive and well, and not making more of an effort to have a real relationship with her. But it was problematical. . . .

  He was silent for several moments, then said, “It must have been very hard on you to lose your father.”

  She felt her insides still, waiting for him to say something about her mother, too. How devastated she must have been, how brave she was, how difficult it must have been to work two jobs and raise a child on her own. All the things everyone always said because over the years her mother had nearly fallen apart at the seams emotionally, while Julie had held it together like a trouper, excelled in school, and never once needed the help of a shrink to make it through the dark nights.

  But he didn’t. Instead he said, “They all assumed you were fine, didn’t they.” More of a statement than a question.

  “I was fine,” she stated automatically.

  But suddenly her eyes began to sting. From the pain of the memory, yes . . . but also because from that simple statement she realized at long last she’d found someone who possibly understood what she’d gone through. He saw straight through the façade of strength and well-being to the isolation and anguish she’d kept buried for so many years.

  He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and tightened his arms around her. The silence stretched, but comfortably, bringing them somehow closer in unspoken empathy. Then he murmured, “I wish we’d at least been pen pals. We could have compared notes on how fine we both were.”

  She smiled through her misty eyes. “Except you’re a Russian. I would have blamed you for everything that happened to my father. Damn pinko Ruskie.”

  “Yeah,” he said in a matching rueful tone, “and you’re American. My father would have torn up your letters and burned them before letting you contaminate his only son. Corrupting imperialist Yank.”

  They both chuckled, though she could hear the truth lurking under the humor on both sides. Sins of the fathers . . .
>
  She sighed. “God. What are we going to do, Nikolai?”

  “About what?” he asked, though they both knew exactly what she meant. And it wasn’t about solving the legacy of their pasts.

  Or maybe it was.

  A perverse stubbornness made her say, “About us. You and me.”

  Again he was mute for several minutes. “Pen pals?” he suggested at length.

  “Mmm,” she hummed, a dull spiral of disappointment plowing a swath through her chest. Not that she had a better answer to her own question. She had just hoped . . .

  Well. Never mind what she’d hoped. It was useless to think about.

  “Guess you’ll have to set up that Facebook page after all,” she murmured. Then frowned. “But no other women friends. Only me.”

  This time he didn’t chuckle. “That’s a promise,” he said, his voice quiet and gravel deep.

  As they lay there, around them the sounds of the submarine subtly changed, and the ever-present up-and-down heave and roll shifted speed.

  Nikolai’s body tensed to listen. He said, “The boat’s slowing.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “We must be approaching the date line.” He sat up and urged her up as well. He ran a hand through his hopelessly mussed-up hair, then kissed her. “We better get ourselves dressed and out of this stateroom before Kvartirmyeister Kresney comes to fetch us again.”

  She let out a moan. “Already?”

  He tapped the end of her nose. “Don’t want to be late for the crossing.”

  He had to remind her.

  She was so not ready for this.

  Nevertheless, they got dressed, left their private cocoon, and reluctantly parted with a lingering kiss at the bottom of the ladder. Nikolai would be heading up to the central post and she over to the mess hall, where the pollywogs were supposed to gather for the impending ceremony.

  “Thank you, Liesha,” Nikolai said, gently cradling her face in his large hand as he gave her one last kiss. “That was a wonderful way to spend the afternoon.”

  She sighed in complete agreement. “The pleasure was all mine, Kapitan.”

  His lips curved up. “To be continued,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” she said, doing her best to keep the sadness from her smile as he disappeared up the ladder. How she wished it would never end!

  She stood there for several minutes before going up. Not because she thought they’d be fooling anyone by separating their arrivals, but because she needed to get herself into the right frame of mind to face all those people and the festivities. The time alone with Nikolai had been so intense, so intimate, so personal, she had to take a giant mental step back and try to resurrect that cheerfully objective, professional persona everyone expected to see from her.

  She was finding it more and more difficult on this journey to maintain the fiction of her façade, as well as the fiction of her own life, in the face of what she was learning about herself and the world around her.

  Suddenly she felt a tingle between her shoulder blades.

  Someone was watching her.

  She turned around and found Trent Griff standing in the passageway regarding her. His expression was not without sympathy. “Think maybe you’re getting a bit out of your depth there?” he questioned.

  “Ya think?” She sighed and crossed her arms, feeling exposed at her transparency and uncomfortable because she’d left her laptop in the stateroom, so she had nothing to do with her hands, and nowhere to hide. Despite the shorts she’d put on, she felt naked more because she was without her habitual shield than from her bare legs.

  “For what it’s worth, looks like he is, too,” Griff said, tipping his chin in the direction of the ladder.

  “And loads of good that’ll do either of us,” she returned bleakly.

  “The Cold War is over,” Griff observed philosophically, strolling closer. “You could pack up and move to Russia. Become a foreign correspondent.”

  If only he knew.

  “Yeah,” she said, forcing a wry laugh. “Because Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiya is such a fascinating hotbed of international news.”

  Though admittedly, it was a hotbed of international intrigue. No doubt CIA already had a case officer or two working the Kamchatka Peninsula and wouldn’t mind another. The problem being, of course, that the FSB knew exactly who she was and would never let her live within a thousand miles of the place. Even if she and Nikolai were to marry—which, good Lord, was not even on the radar—access to the strategic military region was highly restricted. With her background, even marriage to a Russian citizen wouldn’t gain her a residency permit there.

  “Well,” Griff said with a shrug, leaning his butt against the ladder, “he could move to the States, then. You’ve got tons of subs over there he could sign on to drive, yeah?”

  She smiled sardonically. “Uh-huh. I’m sure the U.S. Navy would be thrilled to have a Russian national apply to command one of their nuclear submarines.” Her lips twisted. “I can see their faces now.”

  “I’m just saying,” Griff said with a chortle. “This isn’t the fifties. Shouldn’t be too hard to be together, if that’s what you really want.”

  She swallowed a sigh. “Yeah,” she said.

  “Unless that’s not what you really want.” He peered questioningly at her from under a fringe of shaggy, sun-streaked hair.

  The million-dollar question.

  “Jeez, Griff. How could I possibly know that? I only met the guy a few days ago.”

  He grinned. “Ever hear of love at first sight?”

  “Are you trying to mess with my head?” she asked with a groan. If it weren’t so close to the mark it would be funny. As it was . . .

  He winked. “Just playing devil’s advocate, that’s all.”

  Over their heads, the PA system boomed out something unintelligible. After a few seconds of static, someone came on and announced in heavily accented English, “Attention, please. All uncertified warm bodies seeking to enter realm of King Boreas, Supreme Ruler of Frozen North, please report to mess hall immediately.”

  “That would be you,” Griff said, his voice betraying vast amusement.

  “Not you?”

  “Nah. I’ve been over the Arctic Circle a half dozen times. And I practically live on the date line.”

  “Lucky you.”

  When she got to the mess, several men from the Russian crew, including Starpom Varnas and the man she recognized as Lyeĭtenant Danya Petrov, the radio guy, were in the process of being herded into an untidy line along the forward bulkhead. They were all dressed in swim trunks and nothing else, but because of the diesel engines and the warm day above, the air in the sub was nice and toasty. Most of the men looked keyed up and animated, if not downright excited.

  Julie glanced around, but didn’t see Nikolai anywhere. She was almost relieved. She didn’t relish him seeing her being humiliated, which she had a feeling was about to happen.

  “Ah! Miz Severin,” called the man in charge. Despite his wearing the most outrageous costume she’d seen since last Halloween, she recognized Kvartirmyeister Misha Kresney.

  Misha wore a grass skirt and several leis around his neck . . . all made from tacky strings of neon green plastic seaweed and decorated with a veritable school of colorful plastic fish that had been randomly fastened to the strands. In his hand he carried a golden and bejeweled scroll, and on his head he wore what looked suspiciously like a Packers cheese-head, but it had been whittled along the edges and painted white to look like . . . an iceberg?

  Okay, then.

  “You come,” Misha urged, waving the big scroll at her in a beckoning motion.

  Fun, she told herself firmly. This is meant to be fun.

  Steeling her swiftly failing nerves, she walked past a small group of spectators who’d gathered to watch. When she’d taken her place in line, Misha raised his gold-decorated scroll in the air for silence. Its cut-glass jewels sparkled in the flash of a handful of pocket-sized cameras. Grea
t. Her embarrassment would be recorded for all posterity.

  He made an announcement in Russian, which Starpom Varnas, standing next to her, quickly translated. “We go to stern trunk hatch,” he said. “Just to follow others.” He lifted a hand to indicate she should go before him, so she fell into line.

  “Who is he supposed to be dressed as?” she asked Varnas, indicating Misha.

  “Davy Jones. The sea devil.”

  She smiled. “Not a very devilish costume. I love the plastic fish.”

  Stefan Varnas chuckled. “Plastic not break. Small box to store many costumes.” He used his hands to indicate a size of about one foot by two feet.

  “Wow, that is small.” She glanced around. “There are other costumes?”

  “We see up on deck. But more next week at Arctic crossing. Royal court of King Boreas and Queen Amphitrite and also color guard. Today not so many.”

  The line headed aft in a single file with Misha at the head calling loudly to one and all to join them on deck for the interrogation and feast. Most of the grinning crew members made humorous comments as they passed. She waved Stefan Varnas off when he offered to translate—she could imagine well enough. Several of the men whistled at her borrowed shorts, which were thankfully too large rather than too small, and ugly as hell. She sent the jokers a “give me a break” look and kept walking.

  They reached the ladder, and Misha ushered the line of “warm bodies” topside, where most of the off-duty crew and the scientists were already waiting, packed onto the aft deck like sardines and crowded onto the sail high above it. The sun was dipping toward the horizon and there was a considerable chill in the air, but the wind was calm and Ostrov bobbed peacefully on the gentle waves, having cut the engines to allow all but a skeleton crew to enjoy the festivities on deck.

  The deck itself had been decorated, festooned with dancing strings of blue and white fairy lights and paper streamers. It looked enchanting.

  The delicious smell of barbecue scented the salt air and made Julie’s stomach growl as Misha led the pollywogs through the crush, past the fairwater, past where a happily grinning Rufus Edwards stood tending the ribs at a smoking grill, and directed them to stand at the very front of the foredeck.